


candy darling

by nonbinarywithaknife (littleboxes)



Series: dimension 20 [81]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 05: A Crown of Candy, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, Love/Hate, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Rivalry, Sexual Tension, classism inherent to the fantasy setting, insults as flirting, letter writing, macro canon compliant micro some details may be off, sexual harassment (briefly)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28310457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleboxes/pseuds/nonbinarywithaknife
Summary: Donetta Cruller is tall and whip-smart and confident, and she knows it. When she meets Calroy Battenburg for the first time—eighteen, the third son of a merchant granted nobility, all limbs too awkward to be graceful and too-sharp smiles, yes, she knows his name—it’s hate at first sight.
Relationships: Calroy Cruller/Donetta Cruller
Series: dimension 20 [81]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706107
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	candy darling

**Author's Note:**

> whats up i am so deep in the calnetta evil power couple hole and i wrote this at 1am and this fic has a playlist  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5qJFUaujQtSc2y59gwMIAp  
> title is from for elise by saint motel  
> there's a very brief section where a drunk man gets uncomfortably close to donetta and she's not okay with it, if you want to skip it go from "Donetta has never enjoyed the company of Lord Batterbur" to "Lord Batterbur’s wrist is saved by the swift arrival"

Donetta Cruller is tall and whip-smart and confident, and she knows it. When she meets Calroy Battenburg for the first time—eighteen, the third son of a merchant granted nobility, all limbs too awkward to be graceful and too-sharp smiles, yes, she knows his name—it’s hate at first sight. 

He approaches her, and his bow is jerky but as he says, “My Lady,” his voice is steady. She looks down her nose at him. He wears his formal clothing like it’s stiff, new and ill-fitting (bought, not tailored, she notes), and it makes her angry. Irrationally so. Should he not be better than this? Try _harder_? She is eighteen and has been embroiled in the politics of Candia’s eastern regions since she was old enough to understand her tutor’s words, and she can read his posture. He could be great at this. Will be. It makes her angry, the way he greets her like the words are unfamiliar in his mouth, and she feels her skin prickle. Her expression is unfazed, of course. Mostly. She works to smooth the crease in her brow.

“Sir Battenburg,” she says, voice as cool and still as the surface of a lake, and at least he knows enough to be offended by her choice of prefix. Not that _sir_ isn’t correct, but his status entitles him to _lord_ , and it would be expected. Polite. Her choice of _sir_ highlights her distaste. 

He takes the hint, and after a few more lines of forced small talk, leaves her presence. If she watches him go with sharp eyes, that’s no one’s business but her own.

Calroy is trying very hard not to glare at the sneering noble daughter of the Lord of Muffinfield. She thinks she’s better than him, just like the rest of them. His brothers snicker and elbow and joke, _got your eye on her, huh, Cal? Good luck_ , and he grits his teeth and drifts through the crowd. He’s not used to this, yet, the ways of nobility, but he _will be_ . He will be, he’ll become one of them and more, he’ll be the _best_ of them—and he’ll rub it in the smug face of Cruller’s daughter once he does it, too, he’ll show her and the rest of them.

The rest of the party goes on in an utterly dull manner, and he makes his way through the room, matching faces to names and committing them all to memory. He hovers near the servants and takes note of their gossip. He does his best to avoid pulling at the collar of his shirt that feels too-tight and starched to death. 

He doesn’t approach Donetta Cruller again, but he never forgets her condescending look. 

Days later, as he studies, he remembers her tone— _Sir Battenburg —_and his blood burns.

(Days later, Donetta’s family tailor is updating her measurements. As she stands on the small dais, her thoughts turn to the upstart Battenburg boy and his ill-fitting, store-bought clothing, and her lip curls before she can stop it.)

A week after the party, a courier brings a package to Calroy Battenburg. Not to his father, or his brothers, or the household. To _him_. A magenta colored doublet with embroidery along the chest and arms in a barely noticeable shade lighter than the rest. There is a note lying atop it. 

_Perhaps now you may stop walking among your peers like a boy playing dress up, Sir Battenburg. Do tell me if adjustments are needed._

_Regards,_

_Lady Donetta of House Cruller_

Calroy stares at the note, and _fumes_. He’s half-tempted to burn the note and the doublet with it. But the fireplace in his room is unlit, and he can’t be bothered to deal with the temperamental flint at the moment.

He tries on the doublet out of curiosity, or spite, or both. It’s perfectly tailored to his measurements. The magenta compliments his hair. Even the whorls of the embroidery bring to mind his family’s crest. 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror—a noble reflection; he sees a young lord instead of a merchant’s whelp—and the urge to light something on fire returns with a vengeance. He takes a deep breath. (Several. In quick succession.) He sits down at his desk, and begins crafting a letter. 

Such a _kind gift_ begets a gesture of _thanks_ , of course. (Never mind the new gouges in the wood, after he has finished. He’s been quite restrained about the whole thing, frankly, and best the words are dark and bold, all the more easily read.)

_My thanks are offered to you for your kind gift, Madam Cruller. Perhaps if you are so concerned with the wardrobe of my family, you might offer your services in the reconstruction of my brother’s hose; they were most unfortunately ripped the other day._

_Fondest Regards,_

_Lord Calroy of House Battenburg_

Donetta stares at the package in front of her, mute with outrage. Sure enough, there is a pair of ripped grey hose on the desk, still smelling faintly of blood—of which there are several _stains_ upon it! The _gall_ , the _audacity_ —

She’s jerked violently from her increasingly vitriolic thoughts by a hand on her shoulder. 

“Netta-?” her younger brother asks, looking between her and the—the _package_. She exhales, and whirls around. She does not _stomp_ up the stairs to her rooms, but she ascends them quickly and with purpose. Her younger brother is left to stare, bewildered, in her wake. 

See if she will let this _insult_ stand, see if she will-!

The snapped quill that finds a home in her wastebasket was frail with use anyway, and the one that follows it was poorly made.

_I do not know what kind of slovenly_ pit _you were raised in, Sir Battenburg, but in_ civilized society _, one does not repay generosity (and generosity direly needed, at that!) with such crude insult. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with such basic conduct, as I can only wonder at the poor quality of education you must have received, but allow this missive to enlighten you._

_Despite how coarsely phrased your boorish request was, I have nevertheless elected to fulfill it._

_Regarding you in contempt,_

**_Lady_ ** _Donetta of House Cruller_

Calroy stares at the way the ink of _lady_ is much darker than the rest, and smirks with satisfaction, even as his fingers itch to refute her every point and his pride stings at her continued use of _sir_.

_Regarding the slovenly pit I was raised in, you may be familiar with it_ — _a town called Muffinfield? A filthy place to be certain; grime fills its streets and the people_ — _well! I dare not describe them here, for fear of causing your heart distress, as it is not for the weak of constitution._

 _I find I must take issue with your language_ — _my boorish request was hardly coarsely phrased, and even one with such wandering eyes as your own can see that, surely? Furthermore, my brother sends his thanks, and an inquiry as to whether you are looking to continue such work, as his work as a guardsman finds him with many rips and tears in need of mending._

_Regarding you with no small amount of amusement,_

**_Lord_ ** _Calroy of House Battenburg_

— _do well to mind who you accuse of bearing a weak constitution_ —

— _are more than welcome, Sir Battenburg, to take your musings on the cleanliness of the fine town of Muffinfield and your opinion of its residents’ respectability, and_ —

— _n addition, I find I must take issue with your implication, as my eyes have never wandered any place I did not intend them to be_ —

— _may tell your esteemed brother that I have_ no interest _in mending his rips nor his tears, and he would be better off employing the talents of a tailor more local to him, or not; in any case, a tailor who is not I! Further_ —

  
  


_...I shall certainly take your advice under consideration, but I find my musings and opinions to be rather dear to me indeed, and speaking of them, I have noticed…_

_...Truly? Well then I can only assume my attire was less offensive to you than was initially implied by your oh so_ generous _gift, though that leaves your keen eye in doubt; but of course, none of us are perfect, and mistakes are perfectly understandable…_

_...your last point, I must contend..._

By the time Calroy Battenburg and Donetta Cruller come face to face again, a year and more has passed. Calroy has spent long hours acclimatizing to the feel of a noble’s apparel, and found his home in it and the attitude to boot. Donetta has sharpened her wit to so fine a point that most don’t even feel it slide between their ribs, and she wields it with grace.

“ _Lord_ Calroy,” Donetta says as she curtsies to him. He is wearing her gift from some months ago, and the shade of magenta sets off his hair in just the way she knew it would. She pays no mind to the way it is slightly tighter across his shoulders than it might have been a year ago, and the way it shows off the lean muscle of a fencer. 

Her smugness must shine through her eyes somehow, because his perfectly pleasant smile turns into a smirk at the edges.

“ _Lady_ Donetta,” he replies, placing a feather-light kiss onto the back of her hand, “a _pleasure_ to see you and your wandering eyes here.”

She moves her hand back to rest at her side, and _pays no mind_ to the way his lips felt against her skin. She steps forward into his space. (He stands taller now. His jerky bows have given way to graceful dips. _Better_ , she thinks.)

“As I’ve said, my eyes wander no place I do not bid them to,” she says, and for a split second, his eyes widen, and she allows a grin, quick and victorious, to flash across her face before she regains her aloof expression. He did not miss it, as she knew he wouldn’t, and his mouth tightens as his eyes flash.

“Well, in—”

He is interrupted as another lord approaches Donetta, simpering as he does. She turns away, delight melting into a perfectly polite nod. Calroy doesn’t notice, just as she doesn’t notice the flash of disappointment in his eyes before he moves to mingle with the rest of the crowd.

They don’t get a chance to speak again before the party ends. 

Neither of them notice the way the barbs that make up their letters begin to dull with affection. Calroy feels a pang of loss in his chest when he realizes he will be unable to make the next gathering he knows Donetta will be attending, and steadfastly ignores it. Donetta finds herself distracted more often than not with thoughts of how best to respond to Calroy’s latest argument, and thinks nothing of the longing expression that takes up residence on her face. 

Another year passes and they send more letters than ever before. The couriers that travel between the Cruller and Battenburg estates take bets on when their respective masters will open their eyes. 

In fact, it’s not very long after the betting pool is established, that they do, and it’s entirely due to a minor lord who can’t keep his drink. 

Donetta has never enjoyed the company of Lord Batterbur, but he is—usually—an easily avoidable nuisance. That is, when he hasn’t over-indulged to the point of scattering any sense he has left to the winds.

She tolerates his slurred greetings and further slurred compliments. He is an ally of her father’s, and despite his home’s small population they are an important stop along the Glucian road. Their continued grace is important. He presses closer into her space and she spares him a glacial smile and gracefully bends her body as far away from his wine-soaked breath as she can. 

He twines a bony finger in her hair and murmurs an intent to proposition her father for her hand and she freezes, and begins to reach for his wrist to break it, her reluctance to cause a scene be damned.

Lord Batterbur’s wrist is saved by the swift arrival of one Calroy Battenburg. He glides between them and wraps an elegant arm around Batterbur’s shoulders.

“Ah, but I’m terribly sorry, my friend. I’m afraid I seem to have beaten you to the punch—you see, I’ve already asked for dear Donetta’s hand, and she’s accepted.”

Donetta still very much wants to break Lord Batterbur’s wrist, and then take a very long bath, but Calroy casually guides him away, talking all the while. She is left to stand there, lacking any distractions from the unmistakable way her heart skips at the thought of marrying the most infuriating man she’s ever had the dubious pleasure of meeting. 

He circles back around to her a few minutes later, and she sees a contrite expression on his face for the first time in as long as she’s known him. 

“I am—sorry, about my presumption, Lady Cruller,” he says, and it’s stiff and formal in a way that they haven’t been since they first met, and it’s discomfiting. 

“Do you find me so repulsive, then, Calroy?” she says on impulse, and it’s a thrill, to strip away the titles, “That even the mere thought of my hand makes you stiffer than starched fabric?”

He blinks at her, unsteady, before he responds, this thread of banter the same and oh, so different from what came before it.

“Not at all. But given how easily upset you can be by trivial insults, I thought it best to err on the side of apology.”

“Mm,” Donetta says, and she finds herself stepping into Calroy’s space, “I feel I should make it clear, then, that I find your words no insult, and myself hardly upset.”

“Indeed?”

It’s not three months later they’re formally engaged, and a month after that, Donetta is walking down the aisle of a church, with Calroy awaiting her at the altar. Their vows are as quick and full of wit as they are.

There is no question of who will take whose last name. 

“You just enjoy the alliteration,” Donetta teases, and Calroy shrugs. 

“I’m a simple man, I enjoy the simple pleasures life grants me,” he says, and Donetta barks out a laugh. 

“You are simple, yes,” she replies, and ignores his offended squawk and, failing that, impassioned defense of his complexity.

**Author's Note:**

> im on tumblr @nonbinarywithaknife


End file.
